Rambling

What shall we talk about – what’s up

(we’ve got a little bit of time)

and who will speak and who will follow whom

(what’s new upon this kitchen table top)

and shall we circle round and round

(with eyes and ears and touch and tongue)

giving little pats-on-the-head

(and will we choose to work, eat, dance or sing or sleep)?

Who shall we please and who not please

(tomorrow and tomorrow’s ace

encounters, meetings, semaphore)

or hate or care or love, respect,

or look across the surfaces

and feel for sudden truth - and trust?

Every year

it’s clear

that Xmas day is my mate

John’s birthday

and any old glitter on the table,

scissors and sellotape,

will be in play.

As two festivals collide

he often gets the thought

that, ultimately,  everything unites

although, as he looks out through

swiveling snow,

we know that (deep down) too

it bugs him – because

he keeps squinting to the East,

waiting for the next Jesus

coming - the second one

who will turn the table, soften

his inevitable burden.